


Golden Fruit of Your Eyes

by honeyedapricotsunshine



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 09:29:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17139278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyedapricotsunshine/pseuds/honeyedapricotsunshine
Summary: Prompt #31Jongin is an herbalist searching for a rare plant; his travels take him to the town of Honeyville, where Kyungsoo is an expert on local plants.





	1. Autumn

The valley is beautiful. Dizzying, almost, with all the plants Jongin has only heard of, has only seen in textbooks with wonderfully illustrated (if old-fashioned) watercolor paintings. It’s almost enough to make him forget his exhaustion. It’s been a long journey.

 

Perhaps we should start over.

 

Jongin is a Bay City boy, born and raised. Descended from a long line of (very distinguished) herbalists from the Willowwood countryside. But his grandmother had been invited to teach at the Bay City University (she’d sniffed, said herbalism wasn’t something that could be taught in such a sterilized place); when his grandfather died, off on some expedition, his grandmother found the offer appealing. It was steady income, the comfort of settling down with two children, still young. So Jongin’s mother was raised in the city (and took a job as a nurse; grandmother hated that. Healing was supposed to be natural), learning from his grandmother despite his mother’s disapproval. In fact, mother had encouraged him to look into other fields, far more grandiose than the one he was so keen on pursuing; he didn’t listen. But, to please his mother, he studied herbalism at the University (his grandmother never let him hear the end of it), and had set off to explore new species of plants in far off places. He even planned a trip to Willowwood with grandmother, to study the plants of her youth in person.

But Jongin is a dreamer, and he’s fixated with the study of mythical plants; plants he isn’t sure exist (but surely they _must_ , if they’re so prolific in stories). Some of these plants turn out to be real; he’d found, on a trip to Pine Pass, a grotesque, extremely poisonous berry known locally as red claw; on a trip to Mistymere he found the frog blossom, a shrub with green flowers that clustered (very oddly) into the shape of a frog; at Sandy Cove City, the sand shrub, which produced a gritty looking bean used for a famous local dish. Yet there was one that still evaded discovery: the honey berry.

The University had some old records (labeled all as folklore) that spoke of honey berries in the Sundell, which didn’t exist. Except one record identified Sundell as the area known as Buttervale; it was a slim chance that this was true, but Jongin has worked with less. So he’d planned it all (with a grant from the University, which he did not expect) and left two weeks ago, with his grandmother’s blessing. He set out in early September, at the start of the new semester, when the foliage would still be green and the sun still warm.

There are three urban centers in Buttervale; Jongin’s destination is Honeyville, the city in the center. But, as he expects, Buttervale is considered a lesser province, and transportation is not as frequent or reliable as he would’ve liked, hence the time it takes to get there. At Dawngrove, a tiny village halfway between Bearpost —the city at the entrance of the valley, and the biggest of the three— and Honeyville, he is given two options: walk, or pay for a ridiculously expensive taxi. Jongin is already worn out by the excruciatingly slow train ride to Bearpost. Walking “three hours north, give or take a few wild animals” as the clerk at the village’s only information center told him, sounds unappealing. So he forks over the cash and resigns himself to skipping a few meals.

Which is how he ends up at Honeyville an hour later, the pain in his lower back flaring up (as it does when he sits for too long), stomach gurgling its protests at the shoddy meals he is forced to eat when traveling. What he does not expect, however, is for a young man to be waiting for him at the Honeyville Association of Herbalists (HAH, for short; Jongin is a little too tired to appreciate this at the moment).

“You must be Jongin,” the guy chirps, holding out a hand.

Jongin shakes it, trying, as best he can, to return the brightness of the smile.

“From Bay City University, yes,” he says.

“I’m Jongdae, mayor of Honeyville,” the cheery guy replies.

Jongin gapes. His manners escape him, but really, Jongdae doesn’t look much older than himself.

“B-but-”

“I’m young, yes, I know,” says Jongdae, but the laugh that follows is good natured. “It’s a holiday today, so the association isn’t actually open, but how about I give you a tour?”

It’s the last thing Jongin wants, actually. He wants a hot shower, some nice food, but it would be too rude to say no, so he offers what he thinks is a polite smile.

“Lead the way,” he says.

Honeyville is both smaller and bigger than Jongin expected. There are a few high rises in the center (well, they look paltry compared to the Bay City high rises, but ten stories at Honeyville means they tower over all the other buildings). The houses look mostly modern, which surprises Jongin; he expected quaint brick cottages with overgrown ivy and round windows, but most of the houses seem fresh and sturdy in that new-built way.

“It depends on who you ask, really,” says Jongdae. He’s been explaining things, but Jongin tunes in and out of the constant stream of conversation. “We’re both a very large town and a very small city.” Jongdae laughs at this. “We always take care to be eco-friendly, though. It’s our legacy, after all. We’re very proud of preserving this part of Buttervale. Bearpost is far too focused on urbanization.” A sniff of disapproval. “Do you have a place to stay?”

Jongin goes a full beat without answering; he hasn’t realized he’s been asked a question.

“Oh, uh, no?”

Jongdae scrunches his nose at this.

“Mm, shouldn’t be too much of a problem,” he says, in a totally cryptic way. Jongin should’ve taken this as a warning, but he doesn’t.

The tour continues. They’re stopped often, mostly people who want to greet Jongdae, give him a snack (it’s the ahjummas who do this), or give him an update on their puppies, or to offer a firm handshake. It makes for slow going; it should also have given Jongin time to realize they’ve been walking for quite some time, and he was missing something very important.

“We’ll take the bus here, yeah?” says Jongdae when they reach a wide road that branches off of the main street. “How long will you be staying with us?”

Jongin adjusts his bag.

“Well, the grant is for a year.”

“A year and you only have one backpack?” Jongdae asks, his eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hairline.

“What- oh fuck,” Jongin sags against the glass of the bus stop, letting his head drop back against it.

“Ah, left it in the taxi?”

“Yeah,” Jongin groans.

“That’s no problem,” Jongdae chirps.

In his exhaustion, he can’t (doesn’t) control the incredulous look he gives Jongdae. The mayor doesn’t seem bothered.

“No offense but-”

“The benefits of small towns, Jongin, we all know each other,” says Jongdae.

The bus sighs to a stop, and the doors pop open. Jongdae greets the bus driver, who flashes them a wide grin. It’s odd, all this amiability. He’s used to the fast paced, aggressive nature of Bay City. They take their seats, and Jongdae whips out his phone.

“What was the cab company?” he asks.

“Uh, Dawngrove Taxi Company, I think?”   
“Mm.”

With Jongdae occupied on his phone, Jongin takes the chance to unfocus, to let the rattle of the bus (which is, he realizes with a pleased smile, far less than that of Bay City; the roads are much better here) and the blur of green and buildings rush past. The bus route meanders through clusters of houses until they grow farther apart. The variety of the plants, oaks, pines, hawthorns, cypress, and birches, keep him awake; there were even a few orchards, red pears and yellow apples half-formed on the branches. Among the trees are also a great many stone fruit trees, peaches, nectarines, cherries, plums, and apricots, which would no doubt have heavy branches come spring. He’s fairly certain they’ve crossed the entirety of the town by the time the bus putters to a stop in front of a grocery store (which is super cute, the kind of storefront to be featured on 99 cent postcards) in an expanse of green. Jongdae stands up then, waving at Jongin to follow him. They get off, and Jongin can’t help but take a deep breath. From the store, the road forks into two; a field of apple-pears takes the expanse on the far right, while the triangle in the middle boasts a stationery store and a fruit market. To the left, just beyond a thicket of trees, is a two story house drowning in plants, ferns and willow branches curtaining the walls. It’s probably a modern looking house, but under all the green it’s hard to tell. A breeze blows, parting the cascade of ferns to expose the charcoal tile. To the left of the house is a greenhouse, the glass roof gleaming in the noon sun.

“They should get your luggage here later today,” says Jongdae, walking with such confidence past the gate that Jongin nearly chokes on his spit.

“Oh, that’s good. But, uh, where are we exactly?” Jongin asks, taking timid steps toward the house.

“Well, the association has records and all that, but the resident plant expert of Honeyville is Kyungsoo,” says Jongdae, knocking on the rich brown wood of the front door.

Jongin’s stomach sinks. It isn’t the prospect of speaking to this Kyungsoo guy; he’s just too tired to handle much more. And yet, he finds he just can’t manage any sort of protest when Jongdae is flashing him such a brilliant smile, so he rubs his face and sighs.

“Hey, Jongdae- oh, hi,” Kyungsoo (well, Jongin assumes it’s him) pokes his head out, a wonderful smile blooming on his face.

Jongin blinks; he certainly didn’t expect the resident plant expert to be so _cute_. But, yes, there’s no mistake about it as Kyungsoo opens the door further. Cute and _soft_ ; Jongin wants to bury his face in the fleecy fabric of Kyungsoo’s eggshell white sweater. He also wants to nuzzle Kyungsoo’s hair, which looks so silky, and no doubt smells lovely (unlike Jongin). He’s suddenly self-conscious, aware of how greasy his hair must look, how the exhaustion is stamped under his eyes.

“Kyungsoo! This is Jongin from Bay City U, he’s an herbalist and he’s gonna be in town for a while,” says Jongdae. “I figured he’d want to meet you first, given your expertise.”

Pink dusts Kyungsoo’s cheeks. Oh, now Jongin wants to nuzzle those warm cheeks.

“Oh, sure. Come on in,” says Kyungsoo, stepping aside.

Jongin does so, slipping off his shoes (he really regrets wearing his travel-worn pair, they look so shabby) and placing his backpack on the floor next to the shoe rack.

“I actually have to go. They’re waiting for me at the banquet,” says Jongdae.

Jongin almost curses. What is he supposed to do when it comes time to leave? But Jongdae seems unfazed by the bug-eyed look Jongin is giving him.

“Gym banquet?”

“Nah, Cherry Bend Senior Home.”

“Mm,” Kyungsoo nods. “Have fun.”

Jongdae pulls a face, waves, and turns to walk away.

“W-wait,” Jongin sputters, but Jongdae doesn’t hear him. The mayor starts to whistle, walking with a skip in his step.

“Would you like some tea?” Kyungsoo asks.

Jongin grimaces, but the opportunity to rest outweighs his worries about where to stay at the moment, so he nods.

The house is quite cozy. The stairs are just to the left of the entryway, and the living room is tucked behind them, two plush sofas facing the tv, while large windows face the greenhouse. The kitchen and dining table are enclosed behind the living room, and to the right of the kitchen counters is a wooden sliding door that leads to the backyard. To the right of the sliding door is the entrance to a room. What surprises him most (though it shouldn’t have, he is in the home of a plant expert, after all) is how green the house is on the inside. Leafy monsteras, lush ferns, a few curling and cascading bonsai, air plants in whimsical glass containers, terrariums propped on small tables, a moss covered rock, snake plants in the dim corners, pothos plants by the windows, and the magnificent lolling leaves of monstera plants. There are more plants in the kitchen, herbs and vegetables no doubt, but Jongin resists the urge to run over to see them.

“What brings you to Honeyville?” Kyungsoo asks, jolting Jongin out of his reverie.

“Oh, uh, well I specialize in mythical plants,” Jongin says, rubbing his ear.

Kyungsoo fills the kettle with water, raising an eyebrow.

“How’s that?” he asks.

“Well, I find out if they’re real or not. For the University.”

He curses himself for being so flustered; it only takes one cute guy to make him a mess (one _really_ cute guy with beautiful big eyes and a wonderfully warm smile and— no, he needs to _focus_ ).

“Just the University?” Kyungsoo asks, leaning against the counter.

“Ah, no. Mostly for me. My grandmother is an herbalist,” Jongin explains.

Kyungsoo nods. It’s common, expected actually, that the position of herbalist stay within the family.

“Which mythical plant brings you to Honeyville?”

“The honey berry,” says Jongin.

He swears Kyungsoo tenses at that, but it passes in a moment, and Kyungsoo wears a mask of mild interest. How strange.

“Mm.”

“Ever seen one?” he asks.

“Oh, sure,” says Kyungsoo, busying himself with the tin of tea leaves. “Wrong season for them though, it’s a spring plant.”

Jongin curses, apologizing when Kyungsoo gives him an amused look.

“Guess it’s a good thing this place has enough plant diversity to keep me occupied until then,” Jongin grumbles.

Kyungsoo hums in agreement, pouring the water into the teapot and placing the strainer with leaves into it.

“Sugar?”

“Oh no. Unsweetened is fine,” says Jongin.

Kyungsoo takes the cups to the living room and places them on the coffee table before he goes back for the teapot. Jongin, who follows him to the living room, takes one of the cups in his hand; it’s ceramic, black, but with three different finishes defining the stripes. It’s beautiful; his grandmother must be rubbing off on him, he thinks with a smile.

“Where will you be staying?” Kyungsoo asks as he pours the tea.

Jongin watches the steam curl, sighing.

“I, uh, figured I’d get that settled when I got here.”

“Mm.”

Kyungsoo blows on the tea, sending a wave of the earthy green scent in Jongin’s direction.

“You could stay here.”

Jongin stubs his toe against the leg of the coffee table, muttering a heartfelt _fuck_ as he bent over to rub his throbbing toe.

“I can’t possibly do that,” he says, once he’s recovered.

“It won’t be a problem, plus it’ll be cheaper for you,” says Kyungsoo, unfazed.

“It’s a whole _year_ ,” Jongin insists. “That’s too much to ask for, I can’t-”

“I’m _offering_ , dummy,” says Kyungsoo, and Jongin is strangely not offended by this. “Besides, we’ll be working together. It’s convenient for you, and I really don’t mind. You’ll be comfortable, I promise.”

Something tells Jongin he shouldn’t; it’s his city boy instincts kicking in. Kyungsoo can’t _possibly_ just be this nice, could he? And yet, he is. It’s a town thing, as Jongdae said. It still makes Jongin fidget. He decides to try one more weak attempt at a protest.

“B-but-”

“No buts,” says Kyungsoo, sipping the tea.

“I’d be taking up space,” Jongin says weakly.

Kyungsoo gives him an annoyed look, then smiles.

“Guest rooms are meant precisely for this.”

Jongin wants to protest because they’re not meant for some random herbalist to stay for a year, they’re meant for _actual guests_ , but Kyungsoo’s adorably pursing his lips to blow on his tea and Jongin decides maybe he can stay for a bit.

“I guess I can stay for now,” he concedes.

Kyungsoo preens, obviously smug now that Jongin has said yes.

“Just give me a sec, I have to put fresh sheets and towels out,” he says, ducking into the room by the kitchen.

Jongin waits, sinking into the sofa. The warmth of the tea and the quiet whirr of the ceiling fan are enough to make him doze off, hugging a throw pillow close. He’s not sure how long he’s actually asleep for, but it can’t be long, not when there are still wisps rising from his tea; he blinks at Kyungsoo, who is sitting down beside him with a warm smile.

“If you want to get more comfortable, you’re more than welcome to,” he says.

Jongin hums in agreement, placing the throw pillow back onto the sofa; he fetches his bag and shuffles towards the room.

It’s cozy. The bed is in the corner, a thick comforter of moss green beckoning Jongin’s aching body; he resists, stepping into the bathroom for a quick shower. Well, he intends for it to be quick, but once the spray of hot water hits his sore back, he finds it hard to leave. He washes his hair, rinses it, lathers it with conditioner, soaps up, rinses that off, rinses the conditioner, and then he just stands under the spray, blinking sleepily in the vapor that forms.

Once his fingers are pruny and his back is sated by the warmth, he dries off and dresses (thankfully he always keeps a spare outfit in his backpack), shuffling out to the living room. And he’s greeted by the scent of food, which makes his stomach rumble embarrassingly loud.

“Feeling better?” Kyungsoo asks, taking a ladle to stir the soup.

Jongin forgets his shyness and walks up to the stove, peering over Kyungsoo’s shoulder. It’s kalguksu with dumplings, the rich scent of garlic, beef, and chicken broth making Jongin’s mouth water.

“I hope this is alright,” says Kyungsoo, his cheeks pinking. “I’d have made something better if I knew you were coming, but luckily I had these dumplings already prepped.”

When Jongin says nothing, Kyungsoo shifts his weight, clutching the ladle tightly.

“It’s not the best I know-”

“What?” Jongin squawks. “No, this smells incredible.”

He leans closer, flashing Kyungsoo a sheepish grin when the other raises an eyebrow.

“Guess I’ll serve the food now,” says Kyungsoo, grabbing the deep green bowls (Jongin’s wondering when he developed the lust for kitchenware of a middle-aged suburban mother, but he’s absolutely entranced by how nice Kyungsoo’s bowls are). Jongin takes a moment to inspect Kyungsoo’s kitchen garden as Kyungsoo ladles the food: tomatoes, perilla, peppers, garlic, and a few other plants he doesn’t recognize. He resolves to ask Kyungsoo about them later.

They eat in silence, mostly because Jongin is starving and the food is amazing. Kyungsoo watches him hiss at a half bitten dumpling because it burns his lip, very obviously holding back a smile.

“Do you want to put some ice in the soup?” Kyungsoo finally asks.

Jongin grumbles into the bowl, scowling at the noodles that betray him (once again) and slip out of his chopsticks. He’s too tired to even hold chopsticks properly.

“It’s okay, I’ll just-”

But he doesn’t get to answer. The doorbell rings and Kyungsoo gets up, frowning slightly. He takes slow steps towards the entrance, the leisure of someone who’s never needed to rush, and Jongin has to remind himself to not stare at the slight jiggle of Kyungsoo’s asscheeks. Kyungsoo opens the door, but Jongin’s too far to hear the conversation. Then he spots his luggage and he scrambles to the door, licking at the droplets of broth on his lip.

“Sorry, gosh. Don’t worry, I’ll carry it-” Jongin takes the luggage from Kyungsoo’s hands (even though Kyungsoo looks adorable with his puffed cheeks and brow furrowed with effort).

The driver, who Jongin recognizes, tips his hat at them, grinning.

“Enjoy your stay, eh,” he says, and turns to leave.

This interruption, at least, gives their food a chance to cool down; Jongin also eats with a little more caution, blowing on the dumplings until he’s satisfied he can gobble them whole without hurting himself.

After dinner, Kyungsoo brews more tea, though this time he adds something to the leaves, round yellow slices of something gossamer-thin.

“What’s that?” Jongin asks, peering at the slices in the jar.

Kyungsoo waits as Jongin turns the jar and finds the label; on it is written, in neat white writing, _paper lemon_.

“Oh,” he says sheepishly, blushing when Kyungsoo giggles.

“Never heard of it?” he asks.

Jongin shakes his head, bringing the jar close to his nose.

“It’s a type of nut,” says Kyungsoo, pouring the water.

“A _what?_ ” Jongin squawks, nearly dropping the jar.

Kyungsoo laughs, which makes the heat rush to Jongin’s ears.

“It’s a shrub, and once the nuts are ripe, we pick them, dry them, and slice them really thinly. It’s good for adding flavor,” Kyungsoo explains through giggles.

Now Jongin feels stupid; he’s an _herbalist_ after all. He’s seen odd plants all his life.

“Is it edible?”

“Wouldn’t recommend eating it alone like that,” Kyungsoo says with a scrunched nose. “I mean, you can. I don’t like it very much though.”

Jongin decides he’ll pass, screwing the cap onto the jar.

“This from your garden?”

“Yup,” Kyungsoo says, pride glowing from his cheeks. “Pretty much everything I cook with is. Some fruit I get from the orchards, since I help them grow the plants, but most of it is mine.”

Jongin whistles.

“Halmeoni would love you,” he says. Then, because he’s already falling for Kyungsoo’s cuteness, he blushes.

“I’d love to meet her,” Kyungsoo says, taking out the tea cups. “We have plenty of older herbalists here, but they’re all local.”

Jongin sags against the counter, relieved that Kyungsoo hadn’t noticed his blush.

“I’ll see if I can coax her over,” he says with a chuckle.

Kyungsoo smiles as he pours the tea.

“To adventure,” he says, grinning brightly as he holds up a cup.

Jongin clinks his cup against Kyungsoo’s, returning the smile.

“To adventure,” he agrees, and sips the tea.

The taste is not what he expected. There is a certain nuttiness to it, that’s for sure, but also hints of a buttery warmth and the freshness of citrus at the edges.

“Wow,” he says, glancing at the jar of paper lemon slices.

“Like it?” Kyungsoo asks.

“Yeah, definitely,” Jongin replies.

They take the tea to the living room; as they drink, they talk of plants, of the herbalists they’ve known, Jongin’s expeditions, the art of cooking (of which Jongin knows very little), until Jongin doesn’t answer one of Kyungsoo’s questions because he’s staring sleepily at the moss covered rock, breathing slowly.

“Maybe we should call it a night,” Kyungsoo chuckles.

Jongin stirs at that, nearly dropping his empty cup.

“What? Oh gosh, sorry, I’m just exhausted-”

“It’s alright,” Kyungsoo assures him.

He takes the cup from Jongin’s hands and stands.

“Go to sleep. Time isn’t exactly something we’ll run out of soon,” Kyungsoo says, shuffling towards the kitchen.

Jongin doesn’t protest. He makes his way to the room, brushes his teeth, and shucks off his pants before crawling into bed.

He still plans to stay elsewhere, he really does. Despite the plush warmth of the comforters (Jongin makes a mental note to ask Kyungsoo what fabric softener he uses), despite the firmness of the mattress (not too soft, not too hard, and immensely better than any hotel mattress), despite the contentedness of his stomach after the tea, despite how pliant his back is after the shower, despite the fact that Jongin feels far cozier than he did even at home, with the soft breeze rustling the hanging ferns outside, with the warmth that makes him melt. He won’t stay. He _cannot_ stay. It’s not fair to Kyungsoo. But then Jongin thinks about the pink of Kyungsoo’s cheeks, of the fragrant broth and the aroma of tea and the soft patter of Kyungsoo’s slow steps across the living room, and he sighs. One day is all it takes for this place (and for Kyungsoo) to enamor his heart. 

 

————

 

The honey berry is out of season, but it doesn’t mean Jongin isn’t busy. After breakfast, which is artichoke frittatas with oregano and ivory rosemary with slices of what Kyungsoo called salty peaches fanned on the side, they head to the Honeyville Association of Herbalists. The building has a glass facade and wide steps of warm stone that lead to the glass double doors. Inside, a guy with pink hair sits at the front desk, a little too engrossed in his music to notice that they’ve walked in. Kyungsoo walks right up to him and pokes his shoulder.

“Hey Yixing.”

Yixing jumps, laughing when he realizes it’s just Kyungsoo.

“Sorry dude, how are you?” he asks, sheepishly rubbing his neck.

“I’m good. Showing Jongin around,” Kyungsoo replies, turning to Jongin.

“Oh, you’re that Bay City guy,” says Yixing.

They shake hands while Jongin smothers a giggle.

“Well, Minseok is waiting for you in the exhibition hall,” says Yixing, jiggling his knee and smiling.

With another wave, they walk to the exhibition hall, which is at the end of the long hallway, past the elevators. The entrance is a glass door, fogged with heat and humidity. Kyungsoo pushes it open, and Jongin is immediately assaulted with the wet heat of the greenhouse.

It’s too organized to be a normal greenhouse; there are signs with detailed explanations, labels with scientific names, maps with plant stickers on them, and of course, the actual plants. This room is clearly the tropical plants room; Jongin is too busy looking at the cacao pods to notice where he’s walking, and hits his head with a low hanging mango.

“Mmm, the perks of being short,” says a voice Jongin doesn’t know. “I’ve never accidentally bumped my head on a mango.”

The source of the voice is about Kyungsoo’s height, also pink haired, with round spectacles and a cat-like smile.

“Be nice, Minseok,” says Kyungsoo.

Minseok rolls his eyes, but his smile widens.

“Kim Minseok, head researcher of the HAH, at your service,” he says, sticking out a hand.

Jongin shakes it, suddenly aware of how sweaty his palms are.

“Kim Jongin, uh, not really sure what my official title is, honestly,” he says.

Minseok laughs at that, shaking his head.

“Well I hear the honey berry is what brings you to Honeyville. Lucky for you, Kyungsoo-”

“Min!” Kyungsoo squeaks.

They look at each other, one tense minute of silence, while Jongin stands under the mangos awkwardly. Minseok raises an eyebrow, but relents (to what, Jongin’s not sure), waving them down the tropical plants hall.

“You could show him the other stuff we have. You know honey berries are a spring plant,” Kyungsoo says belatedly.

Minseok hums in agreement, opening the double doors at the other end of the hall. The next room is dominated by a pool which is covered in a carpet of water lilies. Minseok whisks them through quickly, smiling when Jongin cranes his neck to get a better look before they’re ushered in through the next set of doors. The next section has three sets of doors. Minseok takes them left, through a short hallway and into an office, which is a re-appropriated greenhouse, with computers on wooden desks and a few file cabinets.

“Lucky for you,” Minseok starts again, “Buttervale is an ecologically rich area. Just because you city people haven’t studied it yet doesn’t mean it’s not here.” He sniffs at that, plopping onto a worn chair.

“Well, I’m more than ready to start exploring,” says Jongin, taking his notebook out of his small messenger bag (he always carries this with him, in case he finds exciting plants).

“He tried paper lemon yesterday,” says Kyungsoo, smiling broadly.

Minseok gasps.

“Oh that’s one of my favorites! What’d you try it in?” he asks, leaning forward in his seat.

“Just tea,” says Jongin, opening his journal to the entry he’d started on the paper lemon. “Would you happen to know the scientific name for that?”

Minseok scoffs and gives Kyungsoo an amused look.

“What kind of question is that?” he grumbles. “It’s castanea citriodorus.”

“It’s related to chestnuts?” Jongin squawks.

“Huh, I hadn’t realized that,” says Kyungsoo.

“I’ve _told_ you to learn the scientific names for things, dummy,” Minseok says, rolling his eyes. “And yes, it’s related to chestnuts. You haven’t seen the whole nut yet, have you?” Minseok giggles a little at that, and Jongin bites back a laugh.

“No, I haven’t seen the whole nut,” Jongin admits.

Minseok rolls his chair to the other side of the file cabinets and picks up a pot. Inside it is a shrub, and from the branches hang little yellow bulbs, a cross between a chestnut and an acorn.

“These aren’t fully grown yet, of course. They get pretty big, about the palm of your hand,” he explains, setting the pot on the ground again.

Jongin pulls a pen out of his bag and scribbles furiously in the notebook.

“Thanks for that,” he mumbles.

“No problem,” Minseok hums. “Any time you need our archives you’re welcome to come by. Usually it’s me here, but sometimes Junmyeon is in, too. He’s the official head of the association but he spends a lot of time going to talks at other associations.”

Jongin thanks him again and peeks at the paper lemon plant, attempting a quick sketch in the upper corner of the entry.

“Any luck finding the mountain jade?” Minseok asks Kyungsoo.

“None yet. I’m hoping Jongin won’t mind helping me look for it,” he replies, smiling bashfully when Jongin looks up at him.

“Mountain jade?”

“It’s a fruit. Kind of grape-like, sort of,” says Kyungsoo. “Really hard to find though.”

“Saw something about it an old journal from Honeyville U. Apparently it likes to grow close to rocky soil by streams,” says Minseok.

At this, Kyungsoo pouts pensively.

“Better get on that before it gets too cold out, then,” he says.

“I’d love to help,” Jongin says a little too enthusiastically; he blushes when they laugh.

“Thanks,” says Kyungsoo, his cheeks pink.

“Oh, before you go, Mrs. Heo left us a little something,” says Minseok, walking towards the back end of the room.

He picks up a crate and hands it to Kyungsoo. Inside are bundles of currant colored berries, shining in the warm light. Kyungsoo gasps.

“Valley wineberries,” he says with a bright smile. “Oh, wait until I make tarts with this.”

Jongin, already intrigued by the new fruit, perks at the mention of food.

“Tarts?”

“Have you already tried Kyungsoo’s cooking?” Minseok asks.

“Some of it,” says Jongin, beaming.

“Ugh, it’s the best. I swear, by the end of this year you won’t even want to move back to Bay City, you’ll miss the food too much,” says Minseok.

“Oh, stop it,” Kyungsoo guffaws, his cheeks turning a deeper pink.

“It’s true,” Minseok insists. “Anyway, I’ll let you two get on your way. Let me know if you find the mountain jade.”

“Of course,” says Kyungsoo.

“A pleasure meeting you,” says Jongin, holding out a hand.

Minseok raises his eyebrows at that.

“Ugh, what a gentleman,” he teases, taking Jongin’s hand. “He’s a keeper.”

“You sound like my mother,” Kyungsoo grumbles.

“She’s a sweet lady, I take that as a compliment,” Minseok says smugly.

Kyungsoo rolls his eyes and shoos Jongin out, following closely with the crate.

“Is pink hair an association thing?” he whispers when they’re waiting for bus.

“Hm? Oh no, it’s a Minseok and Yixing thing. It’s their two year anniversary this month, so they got matching dye jobs,” says Kyungsoo.

Jongin nearly chokes on his spit, but manages to only cough once.

“That’s uh…interesting.”

“It was Minseok’s idea,” Kyungsoo says, as if that explains it.

Jongin only nods. The bus pulls in then, and they make their way back to Kyungsoo’s house.

 

————

 

They settle into a routine after this. After breakfast, they set out into the woods behind Kyungsoo’s house, combing the area by Gold Knot Stream for signs of mountain jade. On these walks, Kyungsoo takes the time to point out other plants; Jongin takes pictures of them, and creates entries in his journal when he’s back at Kyungsoo’s house. Among the plants they find are burnt oregano, a variation of the regular kind which is smokier in flavor with leaves of deep red; gold knot leaf, the namesake of the stream, a shrub with olive-gray leaves and golden veins that curl curiously through the stem and leaves; fever milk, a root much like ginger, which is often used as a cold remedy by the residents of Honeyville; and the most curious, the salt tree, the bark of which was turned into sunsalt, a spice that was both herbaceous and woody, with the slightest heat to it.

They return to Kyungsoo’s house for a shower, then set out for lunch somewhere in the town center, which often disappoints Jongin —not because the food is bad, but because he prefers the food Kyungsoo cooks. After lunch, Jongin goes to the HAH, sifting through their archives, sketching and painting and recording all the plants he can find information on, but the records of the honey berry elude him. Dinner is cooked by Kyungsoo, and while they drink tea, Jongin organizes his journal entries.

Then, one cool October morning, they find it. Kyungsoo is squatting by the stream, peering under a rock, while Jongin searches the drier ground. By a cluster of rocks, Jongin sees a cluster of jade-like stones hanging from a shrub.

“Hey! I think I found it!” Jongin shouts.

Kyungsoo nearly falls into the stream with a cry, scrambling across the pebbly ground to reach him. He leans over, and Jongin tries not to ogle Kyungsoo’s plump ass _too_ much.

“Oh my gosh, it’s-” Kyungsoo pauses to squeeze one of the fruits between his fingers and takes a sniff, “-yes, this is definitely it. You did it!”

Jongin isn’t expecting for Kyungsoo to tackle hug him, but thankfully he’d been working out in the months before this trip. He catches Kyungsoo and hugs him back, squeezing until Kyungsoo squeals in protest.

“Crushing me-”

“Sorry!” Jongin lets go, grinning sheepishly.

“Okay, first things first, taking pictures. You should record the location, date, and time, and then we can-”

“I know,” Jongin says, smiling when Kyungsoo’s ears go red.

“Right, sorry. I’m just excited, that’s all,” he says, squatting by the plant.

He waits as Jongin takes pictures and records the information in his journal. As soon as Jongin gives the okay, Kyungsoo lunges towards the plants, extracting them as carefully as he can, roots and all.

“Two samples?” Jongin asks.

“One for me, one for the association, of course,” says Kyungsoo, waiting for Jongin to put away his journal to hand him one.

Jongin takes the plant gingerly, breathing in the earthy scent.

“It looks bizarre,” he says.

Kyungsoo nods proudly, leading the way back to his house.

“I won’t cook with it, not yet at least. I like to have more than one pot of any plant before I start to use it,” Kyungsoo babbles.

His eyes are bright, his cheeks flushed, as he talks about the plant. He spouts recipes, medicinal uses, even a few drinks he knows of, until they reach Kyungsoo’s house. They stop only for a moment, for Kyungsoo to wrap the roots of his plant in damp paper towel before they head off to the HAH. He wraps the roots of the plant Jongin carries too, and then take it from him.

“Sorry, I got carried away,” he says, once they’ve reached the bus stop.

“It’s cute,” says Jongin.

Kyungsoo gives him a wide-eyed look, his blush deepening. He guffaws and shifts his weight, curling the mountain jade closer. Of course, that only makes him look even cuter, but Jongin resists the urge to tell him so.

The bus ride is maddening. The urge to take one of the fruits is too strong, but he’s not even sure they’ll taste good. He also knows, as the good Bay City University boy he is, that he’s not supposed to eat the science (his grandmother would scoff at this; how can herbalists know what they’re working with if they don’t try it?). So, to distract himself, he stares at Kyungsoo. Okay, he knows that’s not _actually_ a distraction, but he loses himself in the observation anyway. He takes in the heavy dark gossamer of Kyungsoo’s lashes, the curve of Kyungsoo’s cheek, still pinked with the cold, and the plushness of Kyungsoo’s lips, full and deep pink and incredibly enticing. It’s not until there’s a stretch of silence, Kyungsoo returning his stare, that Jongin realizes he’s been way too obvious.

“Is there something on my face?” Kyungsoo asks, juggling the plants between his gloved hands to try to wipe his face, but Jongin beats him to it.

“Just some dirt,” he says, chuckling nervously.

He brushes his fingers against Kyungsoo’s cheek, cleaning off the non-existent dirt until Kyungsoo scrunches his nose.

“Thanks.”

“No problem,” says Jongin, snatching his hand back.

The rest of the ride is quiet; Jongin looks out the window, counting the lampposts until they arrive at the HAH.


	2. Winter, An Interlude

Come winter, they spend time in the greenhouse. It has three rooms: the first is a living area, two sofas and a coffee table surrounded by potted palms and drying herbs and comfort. The second room is for actual plants, veggies and herbs and a few flowers. The third room goes unexplored. Kyungsoo mumbles something about it being empty for now, nothing to see, so Jongin doesn’t push it. He goes back to the first room and sprawls on the sofa while Kyungsoo makes tea (a small stovetop, a kettle, and a sink are installed in one corner, no doubt for moments like these).

“For an herbalist, you don’t know much about how to use the plants for cooking,” says Kyungsoo, sitting on Jongin’s legs.

Jongin squirms, protesting when Kyungsoo laughs at him.

“That’s cause I don’t know how to cook,” Jongin says with a pout.

Kyungsoo gives him an incredulous look.

“Not even a fried egg? Or some white rice?”

Kyungsoo’s face morphs into one of horror when Jongin shakes his head.

“Oh no, I have to teach you how to cook,” Kyungsoo tuts, taking a sip of his tea.

“It’s useless. It won’t stick,” Jongin whines.

“Anyone can cook,” says Kyungsoo.

“Not me!” Jongin sputters.

Kyungsoo tries to hide his laugh behind his mug, but fails, nearly choking on the tea.

“I’m sure you’re being too hard on yourself-”

“I am _not_. Halmeoni tried to teach me already,” Jongin huffs. “If she couldn’t teach me, no one can.”

Kyungsoo gives him a pointed look.

“Hmm. We’ll see about that,” he says.

 

Their days take a different shape then. In the morning, Kyungsoo takes Jongin to the greenhouse and tells him all about the herbs and vegetables there, what to use them in, how to preserve them; Jongin follows him intently, scribbling madly in his notebook (so madly, in fact, that he collides with Kyungsoo more than once). Then they go make breakfast. Well, Jongin attempts to make breakfast while Kyungsoo watches, correcting and chastising and shooing and cursing until he gives up and takes over.

Two weeks into their lessons, Jongin is cracking an egg on the side of a bowl. It’s after dinner now, and Kyungsoo, for reasons Jongin cannot explain, decided to teach Jongin how to bake. But Jongin sucks. He smashes the first egg so badly they have to throw out the whole thing and rinse the bowl to get out any minuscule pieces of eggshell. Then he doesn’t break the next egg hard enough, tapping and tapping until Kyungsoo snatches the egg from his hand.

“Mm,” Jongin leans against the counter with a wide grin.

“What?”

“Not to say I told you so but-”

“You’re not even trying,” says Kyungsoo, and Jongin’s ears heat up.

“I _am_ ,” he whines, but Kyungsoo remains unconvinced.

“Kim Jongin, there’s no way you can’t even, _at the very least_ , crack a fucking egg,” Kyungsoo hisses, waving the dented egg in front of Jongin’s face.

Jongin only gives him a bashful smile.

“Try to mix the ingredients, at least,” Kyungsoo grumbles. “Get the pastry blender- no! Does that look like a blender? Yes, that one!”

Jongin is too giggly to hold it properly; he nearly drops it before he sets it on the counter, flinching when Kyungsoo wields the spatula menacingly.

“Do _not_ drop that, you’ll break your foot if you do!”

Jongin pushes it farther from the edge, biting his lip when Kyungsoo glares at him.

“Okay, let _me_ do the dough, because that’s the hard part, and you can do the filling,” says Kyungsoo, pushing Jongin towards the mixing bowl. “Half the sugarplums and pit them, and then mix them with the other stuff I have here. I’ve already measured it so you don’t need to. And please, for the love of honey, _don’t_ cut yourself.”

Jongin slowly takes one of the knives and begins cautiously halving the sugarplums. He makes slow progress, cursing when the pits don’t come out easily, but he finishes without hurting himself, slicing the sugarplums and tossing them in the bowl. His fingers are stained deep purple from the juice, which he has a feeling won’t come out easily. Kyungsoo’s finished mixing by then, placing the dough in the fridge when he turns to see the mess of juice on Jongin’s hands. He sighs.

“I’ll finish there. Come, soak your hands in warm water for the juice to come out,” says Kyungsoo, beckoning Jongin towards the sink.

Jongin stands there for an eternity, watching the purple fade from his fingers (but his cuticles, he notes with disappointment, stay stained), until Kyungsoo rests his cheek against Jongin’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to stay here all day, y’know,” he says with a smile.

Jongin snorts.

“Am I excused from the kitchen, mom?” he asks, giggling when Kyungsoo swats his arm.

“No. You still have to stay and watch,” says Kyungsoo, throwing the hand towel at Jongin.

“Fine,” Jongin whines, but it’s not really a complaint.

It’s not a complaint because he won’t be watching the food. Instead he watches Kyungsoo, the efficiency with which he works, the adorable frown of concentration, the little pout when he sets the timer on the oven, the quiver of his asscheeks when he steps a little too hard. Every once in a while, Kyungsoo will come to him and offer an herb to smell, or taste, or touch, his knuckles brushing against Jongin’s lips, and Jongin has to resist the urge to kiss Kyungsoo’s fingers.

“Now we wait,” says Kyungsoo, after he’s put the pie in the oven.

In the forty-five minutes it takes the pie to bake, they pile onto the sofa, a mess of pillows and tangled legs as they watch the Buttervale Cooking Channel (Kyungsoo won’t let Jongin watch anything else and ignores Jongin’s protests that the shows only make him hungry). Forty-five minutes is all it takes for Jongin to doze off, lulled to sleep by the warmth of Kyungsoo under him (he’s taken to draping himself over Kyungsoo when they sit on the sofa “for warmth”) and the sound of knives on cutting boards.

He’s woken abruptly when Kyungsoo stands; Kyungsoo gives him a sheepish grin and tucks more throw pillows under him, but runs off to the beeping oven. Jongin sighs and rubs his eyes, stretching before he stands.

“Smells good,” says Jongin, shuffling over to Kyungsoo’s side.

Kyungsoo beams at him, dusting sugar onto the pie.

“Behold, frosted sugarplum pie!” Kyungsoo booms, spreading his arms to show off the pie.

“I wanna try i- ow!” Jongin hisses when Kyungsoo smacks his hand away.

“I just took it out the oven! You have to let it cool first,” Kyungsoo says, giving him an annoyed look.

“But it looks good,” Jongin whimpers, shuffling closer with a pout.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Jongin’s shoulders crumble, but he relents. Ten minutes, that’s all he needs to wait before he can eat the pie, so he passes the time playing with Kyungsoo’s hair, twining strands into tiny braids. Kyungsoo gives him a pointed look, but doesn’t brush him off, much to Jongin’s delight. He shuffles as close as he can, breathing in the scent of Kyungsoo’s shampoo, but the haze of his nap makes his fingers clumsy, and after one too many strands of hair pulled, Kyungsoo shoos him off.

“Where’d you learn to braid?” Kyungsoo grumbles, rubbing his head with a spectacular sulky pout.

“Sorry,” Jongin manages while stifling a yawn. “Your hair is so soft.”

He’s pretty sure Kyungsoo blushes at that, but the shorter herbalist is already walking around the counter, reaching for a knife on the knife rack to cut the pie.

“Do you live by yourself?” Kyungsoo asks.

Jongin is entranced by the pie, gasping as the sugarplum juice, now a violet nearly as dark as eggplant, pools onto the plate. The sugarplum slices glitter in the light, succulent and dark, and Jongin has the silly thought that they might even be dangerous.

“Jongin-ah,” Kyungsoo says with a chuckle.

“What?”

“I asked you if you live by yourself?” Kyungsoo repeats.

Jongin blushes but still pulls the plate towards himself, turning it around to get a better look.

“Well, no. You live here too,” he replies, not bothering to hide his smile when Kyungsoo lets out an annoyed huff.

“I mean in Bay City,” Kyungsoo snaps.

“Yeah, why?” Jongin asks, extracting a slice of sugarplum from the pie slice and sucking on it.

“That explains a lo- stop that! You’re gonna stain your fingers again,” says Kyungsoo, handing Jongin a fork.

“Juice.”

“What?”

“Fork means no juice,” Jongin repeats, licking the juice as best he can off his fingers (but, as usual, Kyungsoo is right; his fingertips now have deep purple spots).

Kyungsoo sighs and swaps the fork for a spoon.

“Is this better, you big baby?” he asks.

Jongin smiles at him, thumb in mouth, and nods. The taste of the sugarplum is still thick on his tongue, surprisingly cold despite only resting for ten minutes. He takes a spoonful, this time with some of the crust, and pops it into his mouth, chewing slowly. The sugarplum juice cools his mouth further (it reminds him of mint, but with a fruity flavor), but the crust combats that, a hint of heat warming his mouth.

“Crust?” Jongin asks, unable to form sentences.

“Yes?” Kyungsoo asks, staring at Jongin until Jongin realizes what he said doesn’t make sense.

“Oh, what did you put in the crust? It’s- it’s warm?” Jongin takes another spoonful, munching slowly.

“A bit of sunsalt,” Kyungsoo says proudly. “Do you like it?”

Jongin nods.

“Wow. So that’s the earthiness I’m getting. And the heat. Wow. Yeah, that’s-” Jongin pauses, giggling when he sees Kyungsoo’s amused look. “I’m not good with words,” he whines.

“Just eat, Jongin,” says Kyungsoo, waving off Jongin’s sheepishness.

 

 

————

 

“Come upstairs,” says Kyungsoo.

Jongin stares. He’s already sprawled on the living room sofa, mug of warmed ember apricot wine in hand, too comfortable to actually move. He also stares because his next thought is that of Kyungsoo, bent over and moaning for Jongin to touch him, because what else would Kyungsoo be inviting him upstairs for? But then he remembers glimpsing sofas at the end of the hall (the laundry room is upstairs too, and Jongin has only been upstairs exclusively for that).

“Aish, alright,” he groans, extracting himself from the cushions and following Kyungsoo upstairs.

And then he understands why. It’s cozier, much more so than downstairs. The roof of the second floor is sloped, not like the much higher ceiling downstairs, which makes the family room (or at least, that’s what Jongin thinks it’s called) feel warmer. There’s a plush comforter on the big sofa, which Jongin immediately burrows into, grinning when Kyungsoo pouts at him.

“I wanna be warm too,” Kyungsoo says softly.

And how can Jongin say no to that? Kyungsoo’s pouty and whiny and fluttering his eyelashes, and Jongin almost lets out a coo ( _almost_ , but he catches himself in time and makes it sound like a cough).

“Okay, I _guess_ we can share,” says Jongin.

He places his mug on the table and folds his legs under him, holding the comforter for Kyungsoo to snuggle under. With a bit of squirming, Kyungsoo does just so, tucking himself neatly into Jongin’s side (Jongin wants to make a snarky comment about the plushness of Kyungsoo’s ass and how it doesn’t let him fit properly on the sofa, but he doesn’t; instead he hugs Kyungsoo closer). Kyungsoo leans forward to grabs their mugs when the beep of the oven interrupts the heavy silence of the house. Kyungsoo groans, extricating himself from Jongin’s embrace.

“I should’ve known this would happen,” he grumbles, dragging his feet down the hall.

“I’ll come with-”

“No! No you won’t. All you’ll do is drool all over the tarts while they cool,” Kyungsoo says firmly, a hand on his hip. “You wait here and drink your wine, I’ll bring them up when they’re ready.”

Jongin pulls a face but curls back onto the sofa, watching the fat snowflakes dust the forest that surrounds Kyungsoo’s house. He lets out a contented sigh; there’s something about this place, the solitude, the quiet, the coziness of the house and the warm mug of wine, that brings him peace. He hadn’t given this much thought at Bay City. The trips to other provinces were exactly that: temporary. There was no shortage of coziness in most of the places he’d visited, but there is something about Honeyville that makes him feel like he needs to escape the bustle of Bay City. Well, perhaps it’s not so much the place as it is the person. Jongin’s cheeks grow warm, already missing Kyungsoo’s warmth by his side. It occurs to him, too, that this was what his grandmother missed; the intimacy of town life (or small city life, if he asked Jongdae), in which relationships weren’t interchangeable and disposable like they were in the city.

The scent precedes Kyungsoo, rich and tantalizing, to interrupt Jongin’s thoughts.

“This is probably my favorite dessert to make, actually,” says Kyungsoo, a plate in each hand.

Jongin springs up to help him, putting the plates onto the table and drawing in his breath. Two tarts on each plate, a gooey combination of scarlet fruit and white garnish.

“What is it?” Jongin asks, so mesmerized by the gentle curl of steam from the tarts that he sits on the floor.

Kyungsoo giggles, pulling him (or trying to) onto the sofa.

“Ember apricot preserve tarts,” he says, “They have a little wineberry juice in them, and ivory rosemary, which I also use for the garnish.”

Jongin tumbles onto the sofa, half on Kyungsoo, giggling when Kyungsoo groans and tries to push him off.

“If I’m too heavy it’s your fault,” says Jongin, sliding back onto the floor.

Kyungsoo smacks the back of Jongin’s head lightly but slides onto the floor beside him.

“Well, dig in,” says Kyungsoo, handing Jongin a spoon, but Jongin already has a tart in hand, blowing on it gently.

The ember apricot, which Kyungsoo showed him in late fall, was slightly bigger than the average apricot, and deep red, but the name came from the effect of eating its flesh. One bite was enough to warm the inside of one’s mouth. Jongin found this out the hard way; he ate one and panicked when his tongue grew warm, thinking it was an allergic reaction, only to realize Kyungsoo had dissolved into giggles beside him.

The baking of the fruit brings this out even more. Jongin is only one bite in, but a thin sheen of sweat shimmers on his forehead. He doesn’t care much, not really, because the tart is divine. The ember apricots are just the right amount of sweet, complemented by the woody ivory rosemary and the tart sharpness of the wineberry juice. He moans, leaning on Kyungsoo.

“You’re ruining me,” he whines, taking another bite.

Kyungsoo only giggles, sipping his mulled wine.

He tries to draw out the tarts as much as he can, but fails, so he settles for licking the leftover juice from the plate and eyeing the remaining half of Kyungsoo’s tart.

“Don’t even think about it,” Kyungsoo says, moving his plate out of Jongin’s reach.

Jongin hugs Kyungsoo, burying his face in Kyungsoo’s neck. Kyungsoo guffaws, trying to wriggle out of Jongin’s hug, but gives up.

“There are more downstairs!” Kyungsoo whines, pawing at Jongin’s arms.

Jongin only sighs, pressing his nose to the crook of Kyungsoo’s neck and breathing in the soft scent of Kyungsoo’s rosemary and blood orange soap (Jongin makes a note to buy some of these too, feeling silly after he turned down the ahjumma at the grocery store by Kyungsoo’s house when she offered him some).

“You always smell so nice,” Jongin blurts, feeling the heat rush to his face.

Kyungsoo feels warmer under him, and that only serves to intensify the scent of the soap, mixing with the clean warmth of Kyungsoo.

“Thank you, now will you go get us more tarts please?” Kyungsoo asks, his voice cracking.

Jongin smiles into Kyungsoo’s neck.

“Okay.”

“And bring the wine,” he says when Jongin stands up, rubbing a red ear.

Jongin tries to bite back his smile.

“Anything for you.”


	3. Spring

Spring arrives abruptly, a rush of warm air settling in the valley exactly halfway through March. Each morning, Jongin peeks out of the window of his room with the absurd hope that a honey berry will be growing right in the window box of flowers. Of course, it doesn’t, but the start of spring brings a flurry of other plants for him to study. First comes the meadow garlic, a slightly sweeter cousin of the garlic Jongin is familiar with. Then comes the radish, followed by the stone fruits, the apricots, cherries, nectarines, plums, peaches, and salt peaches. The salt peach, which Kyungsoo had served several times over the course of fall, was a bigger peach, deep orange with wine red mottled spots; the flesh of it was much softer than regular peaches, and it was because of this the people of Honeyville would pickle it. Jongin, to his delight, learns just how to pickle them; later, he scribbles the process into his new notebook (he realizes, in early spring, that he needs a notebook solely for all the recipes Kyungsoo has shown him).

On a warm morning in mid-April, Jongin walks into the kitchen and clears his throat. Kyungsoo continues his breakfast bustle, chopping chives and humming.

“Kyungsoo.”

“Hm? Oh, morning,” Kyungsoo beams at him, throwing the chives into the jeon batter.

“Um. When exactly, in spring, does the honey berry grow fruit?” he asks.

Kyungsoo’s gotten much better at hiding his hesitations when Jongin asks him about honey berries, but Jongin still sees it, the smallest pause before he picks up a sprig of burnt oregano and pulls off the leaves.

“Early May,” says Kyungsoo. “Just another two weeks, maybe a little earlier. It’s been warm this year.”

Jongin doesn’t press it. Instead he goes to the fridge to rummage around, finally pulling out an ash pumpkin tart Kyungsoo had baked earlier in the week.

“You’ll ruin your appetite,” Kyungsoo says softly, placing a hand on his hip.

Jongin eats half the tart in one bite, smiling when Kyungsoo rolls his eyes.

“Nothing spoils my appetite,” Jongin manages around the mouthful, “If you cook it, I’ll eat it.”

He wants to add _I’ll eat your ass while I’m at it_ , but tactfully doesn’t; instead, he glances at the jiggle of Kyungsoo’s ass when Kyungsoo closes the fridge door with his hip.

“Go set the table, dummy,” says Kyungsoo, squawking when Jongin smacks on of his asscheeks.

Jongin is blushing just as much as Kyungsoo is, but he hides his smile by bending over the utensil drawer, picking out the chopsticks and spoons.

“No shame,” Kyungsoo murmurs, but he’s smiling as he pours the jeon onto the sizzling pan.

 

————

 

They’re on the balcony, bundled up in sweaters and fluffy slippers with hot mugs in their hands, but the night is warm for spring. They settle onto the sofa, Kyungsoo tucked into Jongin’s side, a bowl of fresh sliced apricots and peaches on the table before them.

“Y’know, I can’t get the stories straight,” says Jongin, popping a peach slice into his mouth. “All the stories at the archives say the honey berry can do all these crazy things, but it’s just _one_ fruit. It can’t do all that, can it?”

Kyungsoo looks up at him, blinking lazily.

“Do what?”

“Instantly fix any dish, for example. Curing fertility issues, curing limp dick-” Kyungsoo giggles at this “What? That’s what the text said! Some of them said it was the most powerful aphrodisiac on the planet, and some of them claimed the juice of it could bring people back from the dead. Apparently the perfume was responsible for some impromptu orgy way back in the day.”

By the time Jongin finishes, Kyungsoo is a mess of giggles, his glasses knocked askew.

“S-sorry it’s just- they’re all so ridiculous,” says Kyungsoo.

Jongin waits for Kyungsoo to calm down, sipping his tea and eating another peach slice.

“Alright, the stuff about the aphrodisiac is kind of true,” Kyungsoo finally says, gripping his chest and sighing. “It’s not the most powerful, but it is _pretty_ potent, but only when you distill the juice a certain way. Otherwise it’s just good. Gives your immune system a boost cause it has a lot of vitamin C, but nothing that crazy. Granted, I haven’t actually ever smelled honey berry perfume.”

“Mm, that’s…underwhelming actually,” Jongin says with a pout.

“But-” Kyungsoo sniffles, “My grandmother used to tell me I couldn’t eat overripe honey berries. So maybe there’s some truth to that.”

“Mm, kinda want to try one now,” says Jongin.

“Really?” Kyungsoo asks, incredulous. “Well, you’ll have to wait.”

“What if I don’t have to?” Jongin asks.

“W-what?” Kyungsoo sputters, eyes wide.

“Pretty sure your lips are just as sweet,” says Jongin, swallowing the cringe.

Kyungsoo stares at him, open-mouthed and unmoving, so Jongin leans in and kisses him softly. Kyungsoo squeaks, but kisses him back, warm fingers cupping Jongin’s cheek. When they part, Kyungsoo blushes.

“That was so corny,” he says, bumping his nose against Jongin’s.

“I _know_ that,” Jongin whines. “But the kiss wasn’t.”

“Mm, I’d have to double check that,” says Kyungsoo.

Jongin’s eye widen when he realizes what Kyungsoo means.

“O-of cours-” but Kyungsoo beats him to it, pressing their lips together.

 

The next morning, Jongin wakes up happy. Not that he hasn’t been these past months at Honeyville, but he’s happ- _ier_. He stretches, blinking away sleep as the sun lays its stripes on the comforter, and slips out of bed, scratching his chest. After a splash of cold water on the face and a quick brush of his teeth, he shuffles out to the kitchen.

Kyungsoo is, as usual, already busy with breakfast, the scent of valley wineberry juice and star radishes wafting through the kitchen.

“Smells nice,” says Jongin, wrapping his arms around Kyungsoo. Kyungsoo freezes, looking at him with wide eyes.

“Oh, uh, heh. Thanks,” he mumbles.

Jongin draws away, suddenly worried. Did Kyungsoo regret their kisses, their cuddling on the sofa, burrowed against the cool night breeze? But Kyungsoo turns around then and places a quick kiss on Jongin’s lips, smiling a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You’re up kind of early,” he says softly, piling the thinly sliced star radish on the japchae, which he’d served on a bed of purple rice.

Jongin leans over the plate, giggling when Kyungsoo shoos him.

“I just feel good today,” he says, attempting to steal a slice of radish.

Kyungsoo slaps his hand away.

“Aish, let me finish this,” Kyungsoo grumbles, frowning adorably.

Jongin giggles, but relents, skirting Kyungsoo to go to the fridge. He serves the drinks, yellow apricot tea with autumn basil leaves, and waits for Kyungsoo at the dining table.

As they eat, Jongin’s worry grows. Kyungsoo is quiet again, staring far too intensely at his plate, his movements almost robotic. Jongin fiddles with his food, nibbling at a carrot slice as Kyungsoo sips the tea.

“What’s wrong?” Jongin asks, reaching out to twine his fingers with Kyungsoo’s.

“Ah, nothing. Don’t worry,” says Kyungsoo, smiling at him.

He wants to ask more, but Kyungsoo’s already absorbed in piling star radish and noodles onto a spoonful of rice, extracting his hand from Jongin’s. So he drops it, but watches Kyungsoo’s mechanical movements. Not a word, not even a glance in his direction; Jongin sighs, shoveling the japchae into his mouth.

The silence continues, stiff and brittle as Kyungsoo piles the plates into the dishwasher. Jongin sips his tea noisily, watching as Kyungsoo sets the dishwasher cycle and goes to the sliding door.

“Come with me,” says Kyungsoo, shrugging on a sweater.

Jongin does the same, donning a pair of slippers too. They go out to the greenhouse, Jongin with his notebook and his camera, Kyungsoo with the air of awkwardness he’s had all morning. They go through the first room, and the second, then Kyungsoo stops in front of the door to the third room.

“I- uh, I haven’t been entirely honest,” Kyungsoo says, his voice so soft Jongin has to strain to hear him.

For one absurd moment, Jongin imagines the third room full of corpses, or man eating plants that can speak, begging and screeching “feed me, Kyungsoo.” But then he shakes his head, because his imagination has a habit of getting unruly. Besides, no such plant exists, not even in any of the folklore.

“What do you mean?” he finally asks, adjusting the camera strap.

Kyungsoo opens the door, stepping in and fidgeting with the hem of his sweater. Jongin follows, gasping when he steps in. Honey berries. Not just one shrub, but several rows of them, neatly planted with branches heavy with bulging golden berries. Jongin swallows hard, unable to move.

“I-I… I’m sorry. I just thought you seemed so nice, I didn’t want you to leave so soon after you got here,” Kyungsoo says, pushing his glasses up. “And the longer you were here, the worse I felt. I thought I’d put it off for too long-”

“All this time?” Jongin asks.

Kyungsoo avoids meeting his gaze, nibbling on a fingernail.

“I found a way to get them to grow year round in the greenhouse. They’re really particular plants, but I did it,” he says softly. “They bloom twice a year in here.”

Twice a year. The first bloom must have been fall, when Jongin first arrived, but Kyungsoo had kept it a secret. He takes a deep breath, opening his notebook. He does what he needs to do, making a double paged spread just for the honey berries, recording all he can about them, taking pictures, quiet as he measures and weighs and sketches. Kyungsoo hovers behind him, radiating worry so thick it cloys the air.

When Jongin straightens again, Kyungsoo takes a step closer, biting his lip.

“A-are you angry with me?” Kyungsoo asks.

The truth is Jongin hasn’t decided if he’s angry or not. His feelings are still a mess, the shock too fresh. He feels betrayed, certainly, and there’s anger in there somewhere, but he’s still figuring it out, so he just shrugs and brushes past Kyungsoo.

“Jongin?”

He ignores Kyungsoo and trudges back to the house, locking the door to his room once he’s inside. He busies himself with typing a report for the university, uploading pictures and his notes; once that’s done, he starts to pace, unable to keep still. It clicks then, Minseok’s odd behavior whenever Jongin went to visit the association (especially the first day, he thinks, remembering how Kyungsoo diverted the conversation), Kyungsoo's hesitation to talk about the honey berries, despite being the supposed ‘resident plant expert.’

A few hours after Jongin’s self-imposed isolation, there’s a knock on the door. Jongin pauses mid-step, goes towards the door, then decides against opening it.

“I’m sorry,” says Kyungsoo, his voice muffled by the thick wood. “I understand if you’re angry with me.”

Jongin takes a measured breath, rubbing his face. He thinks about replying, but he doesn’t know what to say. In the past few hours, he’s settled for simmering resentment, but he’s still not sure that’s exactly what he’s really feeling. He hears Kyungsoo sigh and the clink of a glass on the floor, then Kyungsoo’s footsteps moving away from the door. When he’s sure Kyungsoo is gone, he opens the door. On the floor is a glass of pale yellow tea, iced and garnished with honey berries. Jongin takes it, hissing when the cold condensation soaks the hem of his sleeve, and closes the door again. He sets the glass on the desk, wiping the wetness on his pants, and stares at it. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s torn between curiosity and annoyance. Curiosity wins. He sips the tea, licking the stray drops on his lips as he sets the glass down.

It’s odd, equal parts refreshing and warm. It’s sweet and crisp, a mix of yellow apricot and persimmon. But it doesn’t stop there. The tingling warmth spreads until Jongin feels warm all over, almost like he’s floating in a bubble of warm air. The resentment fizzles away, and he’s left feeling peaceful, and just a little guilty for feeling angry. The sun feels just a bit warmer, the fabric of his sweater softer, and he feels calm but resolved. With a deep breath, he takes the berry and pops it into his mouth. It seeps juice, sweeter than the tea, and Jongin blushes at the thought of sucking the juice out of it. Ah, so the texts hadn’t been wrong about the aphrodisiac part. He dares to bite it, teeth sinking through crisp, tart flesh. He shivers; the warmth is more potent now, and he finds himself gripping the seat of the chair, toes curled. His eyes are closed (he doesn’t remember closing them), lips slightly parted. His skin is hyper sensitive, as is his nose. The scent of Kyungsoo’s fabric softener makes him lick his lips and he rests his head on the back of the chair, neck exposed. He’s half hard, but the pleasure the berry brings is slow, waves that wash over him and heat his skin. He considers touching himself, but decides against it, too lazy to go through with it. The berry makes him languid, an oversensitive puddle twitching with pleasure. When he swallows the berry, a pulse of heat makes him whimper. He lets the feeling subside, eyeing the two berries that are left on the glass. He intends to take a sip of the tea, feeling oddly parched, but ends up gulping half of it, wiping the excess from his lips with the back of his sleeve. Ah, what a mistake that had been. His breaths are heavy now, and his sweater starts to feel too heavy, so he shrugs it off and throws it on the bed. The berry had concentrated his pleasure into a kernel, a warmth deep in his belly, but the tea washed it out, sending it to the rest of his body so that even his fingertips felt the intensity of the heat.

He eyes the remaining berries again and leans forward to suck one off the rim. It feels obscene and just a bit ridiculous, even as he darts out his tongue to lap up the juice that spills onto the rim from the broken berry. He holds it in his cheek at first, sucking the juice out languidly, until he starts to get that parched feeling again and he bites down, gripping the edge of the chair as pleasurable pulses rock his body. He’s fully hard now, his dick tenting his pants, and he has the sudden urge to rip them off. He does, hissing when the cool air of the room makes his dick twitch. A moment, now, to catch his breath, watching with an intense curiosity as pre-cum leaks from him, beads of it lazily falling onto his stomach. With a whispered _fuck_ , Jongin reaches for the glass, draining the last of the tea. It makes him leak even more pre-cum, some of it smeared onto his shirt, and he slams the glass down onto the desk, wincing at how loud it sounds. He looks down at himself and curses, lifting his already ruined shirt so it doesn’t get any dirtier. A glance at the glass. One last berry. Jongin gulps, licks his lips, acts like he’s deciding whether or not he wants to go through with this when he’s already made up his mind. He wraps his lips around the last berry, lapping at it until it warms under his tongue (and he isn’t, absolutely _is not_ imagining the berry as a stand in for Kyungsoo’s dick); he sucks it into his mouth, whimpering when his dick throbs a little more. The berry rests on his tongue, seeping juice that makes him tremble, and he wants to beg for more, more sensation, more pleasure, more friction. But of course, it’s only a berry, not Kyungsoo ( _not Kyungsoo_ , he wants to sob). He throws his head back onto the chair and stares at the ceiling, and bites.

He cums. He isn’t expecting to, not so fast, but he does, and it’s disappointing. The tremors of his orgasm are weak, and the cum dribbles onto his stomach, too hot and entirely icky. It’s the first time he’s cum untouched, and he hates it. His dick is still throbbing, still asking to be touched, and his body is too hot and too sensitive. He closes his eyes and wills himself to think of Kyungsoo, to imagine Kyungsoo’s plush lips kissing him wetly, but even that only makes his dick spurt just a little more cum. 

So he sits on the chair, still trembling and wracked with oversensitivity, but too spent to do much else except wait for his body to cool down, for the last of the effect of the berry to fade. It takes a while; the cum dries and Jongin grimaces at the feeling of it, but he stays a while longer, staring at the curtain of ferns outside his window.

 

Three days of study. That’s all he does. Three days in which he spends time in the greenhouse, surrounded by the soft, floral scent of the berries, a golden canopy under which he sketches and compiles all the stories into one place. He also writes down his own experience with the berries, sans the salacious details (he keeps the writing as clinical as he can, but he knows the idiots back at the University will want a more fanciful retelling of the effect of the berries). Kyungsoo is quiet, withdrawn, sometimes coming in to take care of the plants. Jongin watches him discreetly as he does; Kyungsoo hums as he works, sometimes whispering to the plants, sometimes stroking the leaves, always measured and focused as he waters and prunes and sings. It makes Jongin’s heart hurt. Sometimes he feels silly about it, but if Kyungsoo lied about the plants, what else could he have been concealing?

On the third day, just as Kyungsoo is about to leave the greenhouse, Jongin stands up. Kyungsoo turns to look at him and Jongin swears he sees a glint of hope in Kyungsoo’s beautiful wide eyes, but he brushes the suspicion away.

“I’ll need to take a sample of this with me. To the University,” he says, trying to keep his voice as level as possible.

“You can take a whole plant if you want. Just make sure you take care of it on the way back,” Kyungsoo says softly.

Jongin nods, because he doesn’t know what else to say, and he doesn’t trust himself to speak, not when Kyungsoo’s eyes are sad and the smile on Kyungsoo’s lips is heartbreaking.

“Will you stay until summer?” Kyungsoo asks.

Jongin grimaces.

“Don’t know.”

Kyungsoo’s shoulders crumple, but he smiles anyway.

“Okay.”

 

That’s the last thing they say to each other. The next day, he leaves. As soon as Kyungsoo is out the door (Jongin’s not even sure where he’s going) he takes his luggage, honey berry pot in his other arm, and takes the next bus. The bus ride is excruciatingly slow; each stop makes his stomach lurch, afraid that he’d run into Kyungsoo. By the time he reaches the southern edge of Honeyville, he’s a mess, nauseous and sweating under the beanie he’s pulled down nearly over his eyes. It doesn’t take long to find a taxi to Dawngrove, but he’s still anxious, still checking over his shoulder as the taxi driver helps him load the luggage into the trunk.

In the hour it takes to reach Dawngrove, Jongin doesn’t dare touch the honey berry pot, afraid that it somehow has let Kyungsoo know he left, some unspoken connection between plant and gardener. He fidgets constantly, shifting to stretch his legs to the side, avoiding the taxi driver’s pleasantries in favor of staring at the tender green of spring leaves that blur by.

The taxi ride to Bearpost is no less anxiety-inducing. He knows his back is going to hate him even more because of the tension in his limbs, but he can’t convince himself to relax, not when he imagines Kyungsoo coming back to an empty house and no proper goodbye. Jongin sucks his teeth; he should’ve at least told Kyungsoo face to face. But now, with the glittering high-rises of Bearpost peeking over the surrounding forest, he knows it’s too late. He sinks into his seat, glancing at the honey berry pot, which he’d covered in one of Kyungsoo’s old shirts (for protection from the elements, of course, no other reason). The warm glow of gold winks at him from under the charcoal gray, and it makes his heart ache. He thinks of their nights in the greenhouse in the winter, the lazy snuggling while they watched the snow fall, warmed by the glow of the lamps. He thinks of Kyungsoo’s apple cheeks, pinked by the cold; of Kyungsoo’s cheeks, flushed and feverish after a few ember apricot wine glasses; of Kyungsoo’s bright eyes, alight with enthusiasm when they talked about Jongin’s adventures, or Kyungsoo’s childhood; of the sweet smile Kyungsoo always saved for him, crescent-eyed with bunched cheeks. Jongin sniffles and looks out the window again.

In the week and a half it takes him to return to Bay City (he’s grateful the journey is three days less, this time) his emotions are a complete mess. At first it’s the guilt of leaving so abruptly. Guilt morphs into anger, because he needs to justify his departure, but that fades into a dull ache by the time he sees the outskirts of Bay City. He feels relief at the sight of the city skyline, but it doesn’t lessen the tug in his heart, the desire for the coziness of Kyungsoo’s living room. He huffs, rubbing his eyes to conceal how wet they’ve gotten, and goes to water the honey berry pot in the train bathroom.

First things first, a stop at his apartment. He showers, takes a nap, and wakes up absolutely miserable. The honey berry is on the dining table, far too vibrant for the smallness of his place, and he has the sudden urge to chuck it out the window. He doesn’t. Instead he goes to the University, plant in hand, and drops it off at the herbalism department. He doesn’t bother saying hi to anyone, not when he’s in such a foul mood, so he stalks off to find his favorite noodle place, eats, and goes for a walk.

Spring in the city is different. It feels stifled, after the fresh air of Honeyville, though the soft pink of cherry blossoms wink at him through the shining glass of the buildings. He stands in front of one, sunlight filtering through the diaphanous petals, when he starts to cry. It’s sudden, the urge to do so, an overwhelming feeling that he shouldn’t have come back to the city. He allows himself to sob twice before he mops up the hot tears and heads home.


	4. Summer, An Epilogue

It is July. Bright, sunny, and hot, hotter than Jongin expected it to be in the valley. He’s sweating, which annoys him because he’d dressed up nice before leaving Dawngrove, a special outfit just for this. The AC on the bus is soothing, but not quite enough; he fans himself for a while, then gives up, watching the familiar sights go by. Finally, the little grocery store with its striped awning, the haphazardly placed sign advertising new batches of fresh sunsalt and jade ginger plastered against the window. He gets off, stretches, and walks. Each step closer to Kyungsoo’s house makes him anxious, a lump forming in his throat. What if Kyungsoo isn’t home? Then he’d be a sweaty fool, melting on Kyungsoo’s doorstep. He doesn’t have much time to think up other scenarios (which he’s thankful for). He’s here.

Jongin knocks on the door, then presses the buzzer for good measure, rocking on the balls of his feet while he waits. A minute passes, and Jongin is acutely aware of the rivulet of sweat makings its way down the back of his neck. His hair feels baked by the sunlight. Another excruciating minute, then a shout of _I’m coming_. Jongin breathes a sigh of relief (only partial relief, of course) and pats dry some of the sweat off of his upper lip. The door opens, and Kyungsoo stares at him.

He looks a little leaner, but perhaps it’s the haircut. They stare at each other, a full beat of tension, heavy with summer heat and the oppressive buzz of cicadas.

“Hi,” Jongin says at last.

“H-hi. What are you doing here?” Kyungsoo asks. Then he gasps. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it in a bad way, I’m just- why _are_ you here?”

Jongin laughs, in part because he’s relieved, but also because flustered Kyungsoo is always cute.

“Well, the Honeyville Association of Herbalists was looking for someone to start a formal teaching position for herbalism classes and I just so happened to get that job,” says Jongin, his smile growing when Kyungsoo’s eyes widen.

“Y-you’re moving to Honeyville?” he chokes out.

Jongin hums.

“I don’t really have a place yet, though,” Jongin says in a sing-song voice.

“Oh, you don’t? Why are you always leaving these things for the last minu-”

“Kyungsoo.”

Kyungsoo looks at him, and then he gets it, his mouth forming an ‘o.’

“You want to move in with me.”

“Yes,” says Jongin, beaming.

“A heads up would’ve been nice,” Kyungsoo snaps, but there’s no real heat to it. “Does that mean- you’re not angry with me anymore?”

Jongin closes the gap between them and presses their noses together.

“Well, I _was_ angry with you. Very annoyed and a little bit hurt, to be honest,” he says, and Kyungsoo’s ears turn red. “But once I got to Bay City I realized all I wanted was to come back.”

Kyungsoo laughs nervously, placing a tentative hand on Jongin’s chest.

“B-because of me?” Kyungsoo asks.

Jongin only smiles and kisses him. When they part, Jongin gives him another kiss on the nose.

“Is that a yes?”

“Kyung _soo_ ,” Jongin groans.

Kyungsoo giggles.

“Come inside, then, dummy. You’re melting out here,” says Kyungsoo, pulling Jongin into the house. Jongin slips off his shoes and follows Kyungsoo to the kitchen.

“Want anything to drink?”

Jongin smirks, leaning against the counter.

“Wouldn’t happen to have any honey berry tea would you?” he asks.

Kyungsoo goes to the fridge. “I sure do. But the berries are overripe.”

Jongin only grins. Kyungsoo catches the mischievous glint in Jongin’s eyes and blushes.

“O-oh. Oh gosh. Really?” he sputters.

Jongin’s smile grows.

“Only if you want to. If you’re feeling a little adventurous today.”

Kyungsoo returns his smile.

“I think I am,” he says, and takes out the jar of overripe honey berries.


End file.
